Grace
by imaginationismymuse
Summary: It takes losing someone - Damon Salvatore and Grace Martin were childhood friends. Growing up, she fell in love with him; he never noticed. Then, she died. One-hundred and fifty-one years later, they find each other. Old feelings rise, new feelings follow but there are so many secrets, so much history and Damon doesn't know if he can trust her - to realize how much you need them.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter one  
_**1851, Mystic Falls**

A glorious, golden sun held court in a clear sky. A gentle breeze tugged at the leaves of the tall trees. Tiny woodland creatures scuttled along the leafy carpet looking for nuts and berries as they prepared for winter – though winter was many months away. The skinny, raven haired boy raced down the worn dirt path. The forest around him teemed with life and sunshine that dappled the ground but he did not have time to stop and marvel. He was already late. The small, sturdy cottage carved from stone and wood reminded him of a fairy tale. One would expect to see a pegasus nibbling on the vegetable patch in the front yard or a bird of paradise nesting in one of the roof rafters of the quaint little cottage. It wasn't as it seemed though. The honeysuckle that curled up the pale browns and greys of the stone walls hid the peeling paint and crumbling foundation. He didn't notice the sagging roof or smell the scent of rotting wood. Damon slowed down to a walk – cheeks flushed with excitement – and rapped impatiently on the door.

"Coming, coming," a cheerful voice called.

A few shuffles and grunts later and the door creaked open to reveal a tiny, old woman with yellow teeth and twinkly grey eyes. She appraised the boy in front of her. "Ah," she clucked affectionately. "Master Salvatore, how are you today?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Miss Dahlia," Damon answered politely, his eyes wandering over her shoulder to the sparsely populated room. "Is Gracie in?"

"No," she answered and nodded her head in the direction of the quarry, whose glimmering waters could be seen through the cracks in the trees. "She's at the quarry."

Damon spun on his heel, calling a hasty goodbye over his shoulder to Grace's grandmother, and sprinted towards the quarry. Grace was skipping stones across the water, so involved in her task that she did not hear his arrival. Always the opportunist, Damon grinned as an evil idea formed in his head. He snuck forward, careful to not to snap any twigs or step on any leaves, and waited until she bent over to gather another stone before he shoved her forward. She let out a high pitched squeal. Her arms flailing as she fell headfirst into the crisp, clear water. Her wavy, brownish-gold hair disappeared before she emerged sputtering and coughing, pushing soaking strands from her face. Her dark grey eyes narrowed when she saw Damon. He was clutching his sides as he bent over, howling with laughter.

"You should see your face, Gracie," he gasped out between fits of humour. "You look a right mess!"

"I'll get you for this," she vowed.

Revenge was clear in her mind. No silly boy would ever beat _her_. At eleven, she still believed she could be anything and beat anyone. Grace skimmed a hand over the water and sent a sheet of it flying straight into Damon's face. He coughed as water went up his nose. His eyes filled up instinctively, clouding his vision and a muddy patch – a leftover from the recent midsummer showers – proved to be too much for him. He slipped, and landed on his bottom, sprawled in the gooey puddle like one of his father's fat, grunting pigs. Grace packed out laughing, wading out of the water. Damon blushed and scowled at his hands. He couldn't believe a _girl _had gotten the best of him. Though he and Grace were the same age, he had been born first and felt quite grown up in his role as the eldest, ruling over Grace and his brother with kingly stature. He felt it was his right and responsibility. Grace disagreed, usually with her fists, because their birthdays were only a day apart. It didn't matter though. He was still older. The sun disappeared as Grace grinned down at him triumphantly, coating him in shadows and shame.

"Serves you right," she smirked.

"I _meant _to do that!"

"No," she corrected as he jumped up, wiping the worst of the mud from his pants. "I saw you fall! You looked a right fool, Damon."

"Yeah, well you should've seen your face when I pushed you into the lake!" he retorted. "I've never seen someone look so _scared_!"

Now it was her turn to go red and she snapped, "I was not scared! I was surprised!"

"You screamed so loud my ears are still ringing," he taunted, prodding her ribs. "You scream like a _girl_, Gracie."

"I do not!"

"Like one of those irritating ones too," he continued mercilessly. "You sound like Susanna!"

There was deadly silence. The squirrels stopped their endless chatter. The birds ceased their perky twittering. Susanna Forbes was Gracie's sworn enemy, always had been and as far as Grace was concerned, she always would be. The obnoxious girl was a year older than her and as pretty as a butterfly, _and_ she knew it. Susanna had curly, blonde hair and sparkly, green eyes like a fairy princess. Her skin was pale like a porcelain doll. It wasn't that Grace was jealous of her – she couldn't care less about what she looked like – but Susanna was always horrid to her. She tugged at Grace's hair and pinched her arms. Little fists curled into balls. Damon would get it for saying she was anything like _Susanna_. Grace launched herself at him, tackling his taller, slightly thicker body to the floor. He may have been stronger than her but she fought like a wild cat, scratching and biting and wriggling like a snake so that getting a proper grip on her was impossible. She soon had him pinned beneath her. A smug grin appeared on her lips. _Who's the girl now?_

"You lose, _little_ boy," she announced patronisingly.

"Get off of me," he ordered, squirming beneath her. The tips of his ears and nose resembled a tomato. "I said get off me, Gracie!"

"Only once you admit that I beat you," she said. His humiliation was not yet complete until he had admitted defeat. "Come on, Damon. I want to hear you say it."

"No."

"Then I'm never going to move, and I'll tell everyone you were beat by a girl."

He paled at that. What would his friends think? "Fine, you beat me. Happy now?" he asked.

"Yes."

She clambered off of him and he slunk to his feet, shoving his hands sulkily into his pockets. "I let you beat me," he said after a moment, trying to save face. "I couldn't hit a girl."

"You did not!" she protested, crossing her arms and tossing her little head. "I won fair and square! Stop being such a sore loser! You always –"

"You're right," he interrupted, startling her with an extravagant bow. "I just can't lie to you. It's my father, you see. He says to always let girls _think _they've won because you're little and helpless and – Ahhh!"

Grace had grabbed the nearest objects – a particularly prickly little seed – and lobbed it at Damon. It hit him square in the forehead. He clutched the angry red mark, hopping about. When the pain had receded and realization hit him; he bent over and picked up a small, round stone. Grace's eyes widened and she let out a tiny squeak. She turned on her heel and sprinted up the hill, Damon following her closely. The stone whizzed past her cheek. Her bubbly laughter carried on the breeze and Damon couldn't help but join in. It was infectious, so carefree and jovial like sunshine, like summer. They reached the peak of the hill above the quarry, a grassy, open stretch of land dotted with dandelions and the occasional grasshopper. Heartbeats racing and cheeks rosy, they had forgotten what it was they were fighting about. They collapsed onto the soft, green carpet, lying on their backs and staring at the fluffy clouds that drifted across the dream-blue sky.

"I wish summer would last forever," Grace said.

"Me too," he agreed. "Then I wouldn't have to go away."

"I think it's stupid. Why can't you just go to the school in the village?"

"I don't _know_," he sighed, sitting up. "I always come back though, every summer."

"Promise you always will?" she asked, holding out her hand.

Damon grabbed her hand and used her fingers to trace a cross over his heart; their secret code they used for promises. She echoed his action, crossing her heart with his fingers.

"I promise I'll always return," he said solemnly.

"I promise I'll always be waiting, right here," she replied. "This is _our _spot."

"And it always will be."

"Forever and ever and ever," she smiled.

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**Should I continue? **


	2. Chapter 2

**For the snappy response, here's the next chapter I was only to going to post next week. Though I won't be able to be this quick when school restarts (I'm in matric)!  
Enjoy x**

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_Chapter two  
_**2012, Chicago**

Grace knew she shouldn't have gone to that party. The horrid feeling pitted deep in her stomach had only gotten worse as the evening had progressed. The alcohol hadn't helped either, and her unenthusiastic, dull aura had thoroughly irritated her friends. Her friends weren't friends in the sense that they, like every other human, would die. The group she hung out with were more like companions to while away the endless years, the stretch of forever. The only human who she had ever really considered her friend was Ruben.

Ruben la Fontê was her closest friend. He was emotional, flamboyant and openly gay; she absolutely adored him. Grace had met Ruben when she was in New York City during the Civil Rights Movement in the late 1960s. He had been an intimidating figure; his skin as dark as the night sky, his muscles bulged bigger than grapefruits and his eyes were an odd shade of turquoise. Back then he'd been working as a 'muscleman' for the radical Black Panther Party. He'd been young then, about nineteen, and virile. They'd shared a night of brief passion that had ended with a tearful confession that he was a homosexual. She'd laughed in his face, and then because she was more than a little drunk had carelessly remarked that she was a vampire. He'd thought she was lying, making fun of his confession, so she'd grabbed a knife from his small, cramped kitchenette and sliced her hand open. He'd watched in horror then amazement as the wound healed itself. She'd ended up telling him her whole story and he'd told her his. Ruben had rejected her offer of immortality and was now an aging man – though he was by no means an invalid considering the way he drank – living in the bayous of New Orleans.

Grace stumbled drunkenly along the cracked sidewalk, the bottle of whiskey she had stolen sloshed noisily against the sides of the glass. Lifting the nozzle to her lips, she glugged several mouthfuls then growled at the empty bottle. She chucked it into a dark alleyway. It shattered against the grey concrete with a satisfying smash. The warm, thick liquid slid down her throat in a similar fashion to blood. She groaned in frustration. Now she was hungry… _again_. She had had a blood bag not three hours ago and she was _already_ starving. The plodding sound of feet slapping against loose gravel caught her attention and Grace spotted the tall figure walking towards her. Her stomach rumbled. _Okay, fine_, she thought. She slipped into the darkness of the street and waited for her prey to pass her. If she had been sober she would have noted that his gait was a little too precise, a little too quiet to be human.

Grace waited for several minutes, but the man never passed her. She frowned, something was wrong – the night was too silent. She took a long sniff of the air but the scent of blood pumping excitedly through arteries was not there. Her nerves jangled into a Chinese knot. Her instincts told her to be afraid, very afraid. There was a small sound – the whoosh of a door closing – behind her and she spun around, fangs extending, as a shadow dropped down from the roof. Grace didn't even have a split second to register what was happening or who was attacking her before she found herself smashed against the concrete wall of one of the tall buildings in the industrial district. Stars burst across her vision and Grace vaguely wondered where they had come from, there were no stars in Chicago. Then her world refocused. A strangled gasp slipped from between her lips. A cold hand was clamped around her throat, holding her against the damp concrete with a force that would have crushed a human's windpipe.

She struggled uselessly against the grip but her attacker was far stronger than her, which meant he was a vampire, an old vampire if he could hold her down. Grace was one-hundred and forty-eight years old, and while that wasn't particularly old compared to the eternity that stretched before her, she was not a youngling anymore. Grace rarely met vampires that were older than her, or any other vampire at all – the supernatural seemed to avoid her. This one was positively antique because although she pushed against the hand with all her strength, he did not even budge. The face was hidden under the cover of darkness and the shadows of the streetlamp that shone onto her face, blinding her.

"Well, love," his British accent slid over her. Her blood froze. "It's nice to see you again. I've had some trouble finding you, Arabella."

"Klaus," she whispered.

"I'm glad you still remember me."

"How could I forget you?" she questioned sarcastically.

He chuckled sardonically and released her. Her eyes darted down the empty street, searching for a possible way to escape. She had to get away from Klaus. Every time he turned up, she ran. It was how it worked, how it would _always _work unless he was dead. Grace had been searching for years for something that could kill him but had come up with nothing, except rumours and myths. Ones that were either useless or false and usually ended up with pain, her pain.

"Oh, I wouldn't try running, love," he advised, guessing her intentions. "I will hunt you down and this will all become unnecessarily painful for you."

"Tell me why you're here," she demanded. The fear was wearing off and like a cornered animal her first reaction was to get angry, dangerously angry. "Tell me what you want. Actually, on second thought, leave me the hell alone."

Klaus just laughed and held out his arm to her. "Walk with me, Arabella, and I promise I'll tell you what I want."

She raised an eyebrow at him skeptically but since she had no alternative – to disobey was to die – Grace accepted, winding her hand through his offered arm. He led her into the lamp light and she glanced up at him. His handsome, aristocratic features went very well with his posh accent. The hard eyes glinted dangerously, at odds with his curly, light brown hair. He wore casual clothes; dark jeans and a dark blue shirt that clung to his wiry, muscular frame and emphasized the lean arms, one of which her hand now lay on. Klaus was just as good looking as he had been decades ago. _That_ had been a different time though, a different Grace, a time when she had referred to herself as Arabella.

She was still hazy from the alcohol and nearly tripped a couple of times over the cracks in the concrete. Each time he caught her, but his patronizing smirk had her cursing her heels. The shoes were beautiful, a dark red with thin stiletto heels. They had cost her an arm and a leg; a policeman did not make much money. Grace had saved up plenty of money over the years and she was not prone to splashing out – she had to keep up appearances, _and_ she detested shopping – but Ruben had convinced her to buy these "sexy pieces of sin" as he had so eloquently put it. Now she sincerely regretted them, and vowed to make her friend pay for this. If she survived to see tomorrow, that is.

Klaus openly observed the girl he had spent over a hundred and fifty years chasing. Every time she seemed to slip through his fingers in a most annoying manner; he was determined she would not get away this time. Their encounters had been few over the years. Little Grace had become very clever at hiding herself. He always found her though and every time she took his breath away. Her fire, her face, her figure; all of it made her shine so brilliantly. She was no longer the ornery, dull daughter of a broke drunkard. No, Arabella Grace Martin was now as feisty and beautiful and sexy as her name. Her chin lifted haughtily as he saved her from a close confrontation with the sidewalk. Klaus could see how much it grated on her to rely on him. Her obvious hatred only fueled his desire for the young woman he had watched grow up, and she _had _grown up. A pair of dark skinny jeans and a tight, white tank top that showcased her pert cleavage was proof of this. Her legs were lean and unbelievably long, especially in those ridiculous shoes she wore.

"Okay, you've been staring at me for five minutes now," she snapped. "Cut it out, it's creepy."

"Ah, but you're so beautiful, love."

Her eye roll reached the moon. "What do you want, Klaus? I'm sure you didn't hunt me down to flirt with me."

"I'll tell you when I'm ready," he said.

She jerked to a stop and stepped away, arms crossing stubbornly over her chest, unintentionally pushing up her breasts. She snapped, "Then this walk is over. You promised me answers."

"Yes, but you didn't specify when I would have to tell you." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Sorry, love."

"Stop calling me that," she growled. "And my name is Grace, not Arabella."

"I remember when it used to be."

"Not anymore," she stated. "This game you're playing doesn't interest me."

"How do you know when I haven't even told you the rules yet?" he flirted.

"I know you, Klaus, and I can see it. You're lonely. Your scars run deep," she zeroed in on her target when his jaw tightened visibly. "You have suffered and because of it you feel it is your God-given right to take what you want. I don't know why you keep popping up or what you want from me but whatever is, forget about it. I'm _not_ going to be your pawn."

She whirled and stomped away from him but he flashed in front of her, blocking her exit. Her teeth bared themselves at him. Her feral hiss was like a swarm of agitated bees. It amused him. Her spitfire attitude was admirable, though heavily misplaced; he would have nothing less than her complete cooperation. The words had affected him though. Klaus grudgingly acknowledged the truth in them. How had this young woman picked him apart so accurately, yet his own family couldn't even scrape the surface? It shook him. Klaus would have ripped apart any other person who dared to say that to him but he needed her, needed her to do exactly as he said. Klaus gripped her shoulders and stared into her dark eyes. Her pupils dilated as he compelled her, all the feeling soaked out of her.

"You will do exactly as I say," he ordered, forcing his will into her brain. She fought him, uselessly. "You will forget you saw me tonight. You will go back to Mystic Falls, and you will wait there for my orders. This is just your usual check in. Do you understand me?"

"I understand completely," she repeated tonelessly. "I will not disappoint you."

His eyes grazed over her face then he disappeared into the darkness. Grace blinked and peered around the empty street, the empty, unfamiliar street in this huge, grey city. A shiver ran up her spine even though it was the height of summer and the air was still balmy from the heated day. The anonymity of Chicago had always appealed to her but now, on this perfectly pleasant night, she felt the deep need to return home, to return to Virginia, to Mystic Falls. She glanced up at the sky that never darkened, eternally lit by the booming city lights, and longed to see the stars, twinkling like diamonds on the velvety cushion of sky. She longed to see the trees like tall, thin fingers reaching for the sun and smell the scent of dandelions and rain and dead leaves that permeated from the forest. Grace made up her mind then and there; she would go back home. She would leave immediately, tonight.

It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when Grace let herself into her apartment. She immediately began flinging things into her suitcase, zooming around the room in a whirlwind. She stripped out of her party clothes and hastily shoved them into the washing machine along with an assortment of other laundry that needed washing before going in the suitcase. A quick, hot shower later, she emerged from the bathroom with her long hair dripping from its wash and her arms fill of all her products such as shampoo, conditioner and makeup, all her creams and lotions, and her medicine bag. A towel was wrapped tightly around her suntanned body. She shoved the toiletries into various compartments in her gigantic, black travelling suitcase then yanked on a pair of skinny jeans and a loose, blue button up shirt. She shoved on a pair of white sneakers and savagely brushed her soaking hair, not bothering to dry it. Her cell phone rang and she jumped before rushing to pick it up, fumbling through her handbag until she found it.

"Hello?" she asked breathlessly, holding her phone between her shoulder and ear as she haphazardly continued to pack.

"Where did you disappear to, Grace?" the exasperated voice of her friend Olivia called down the line, the thumping sounds of music were evidence that she was still at the party. "You just left!"

"I'm sorry, Olivia," she said without meaning it. "I wasn't feeling well."

"Yeah, well, you were chugging whiskey like nobody's business so I'm not surprised," her friend's voice held no sympathy. Olivia wasn't that type of person. "Still you could have at least told me you were leaving!"

Grace took a deep breath and dropped her bombshell. "Okay, I'm leaving… Chicago, I mean."

"What!?" Olivia exploded after a moment of shocked silence. The music and spirited, drunken calls faded into dull background music. Olivia rounded on her. "Have you gone mad, Grace!? You've just been promoted to _captain_ and now you want to _leave_!? What on earth has possessed you to do something so enormously stupid!?"

"I want to go home, Olivia," she said firmly. "I'm leaving tonight."

"Have you told the police department yet?" The silence answered her question and Olivia sighed, "You have to tell Jason you're leaving, Grace."

Olivia was a public defender – her argumentative, hard-as-nails attitude made her brilliant at it – and she believed rigidly in doing things methodically, in doing things right. Grace found this trait to be a little tiresome at best but now she found it immensely irking. It had been a long day – she had broken up a large drug deal, lost one of her men, had to do mounds of paperwork and then there had been the crappy party – and she had no patience for Olivia.

"No, okay, Olivia," she snapped testily. "I haven't told Jason but the last time I checked, he was my boss, _not _my father."

"It's professional courtesy," her friend shot back. "Is this because Cameron died?"

"What if it is?" Grace challenged – Cameron's death _had_ shaken her, he had been a good man with a pretty wife and two little angels whose lives were now shattered.

"You're going to lose men," Olivia explained, not bothering to soften her tone. "You have to learn to deal. Running away isn't the answer, _especially _without informing your superior officer. It's cowardly."

To be honest Olivia was not entirely opposed to the idea of Grace leaving. If the perfect, gorgeous Grace Martin was no longer on the scene then maybe Jason, the incredibly hot lieutenant, would notice her. He had a thing for Grace, who of course was too oblivious to notice. God, she hoped she hadn't convinced her to stay. Olivia held her breath, squashing the little spark of guilt.

"I'll give him a call tomorrow then, happy?" Grace huffed irritably. "I have to pack and get on the road."

Olivia sent a silent pray to God. "Why are in such a rush to leave?"

Grace eyed the packing that still needed to be done, _and _there was the call she had to make to Ruben. She needed to wrap this up. Listening to Olivia pretend she cared was a waste of precious time, she knew Olivia was only friendly with her because of Jason.

"Look, Olivia, you don't have to pretend you're not excited I'm leaving."

"I can't believe you –"

"I have to go," she interrupted quickly. "I hope you and Jason work out."

With that she hung up, finished packing her shoes and the remainder of her clothes. All her furniture and cutlery would remain here. She never took anything with her. All the cities in which she had stayed long enough to need a house remained as they were when she left them. There had been many cities, many different countries, a thousand different faces and fashions and worlds, and now she was going home again, going back to where it all began. She grabbed her gigantic suitcase filled to the brim with clothes and things she couldn't bear to leave behind. The diamond encrusted headband a Russian tsar had given her before his country was caught in the clashes of war, and the bronze dragon her Nan had given her on her birthday, the day before she died. She grabbed her brown sling over bag that contained her cell phone and her purse. With one last look around the apartment in the pre-colonial style building that had been her house – never her home – for over five years, she slammed the door shut and locked it, compelling the landlord not to let it out and to have it cleaned once a week.

Her car – a dark blue Volkswagen – was parked in the underground parking below the building. She yanked open the boot and shoved her suitcase in it then clambered into the driver's seat, pulling her phone out her bag and hitting speed dial. Her unpainted, raggedy nails tapped impatiently against the leather steering wheel. Ruben picked up on the very last ring, as usual.

"This'd better be important, girl," he growled in his deep, grizzly baritone. "I was sleepin' like a baby."

"I'm going home, Rubes."

There was a pause. "Didn't ya go home five years ago? I thought ya only went every twenty odd years or so."

"That's usually how it works," she said, jamming her keys into the ignition and turning them. The car's engine purred quietly to life. "But I really just wanna go home, you get it?"

"Yeah, sweetie, when I was workin' in New York I yearned for my mama's cookin' and for the bayou. I couldn't shake it."

She shoved the gear into reverse and shot out of the building. "That's it exactly," she said. "Oh, and I wore those shoes we bought together."

"The sexy red ones?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "They killed my feet, Rubes. I've got blisters on my blisters."

"Beauty is pain, baby doll."

"It's so _not _worth it!" she whined as she pulled onto the highway. "My feet are in no shape for driving all the way to Mystic Falls."

"Why don't ya hire a limo then, Gracie? You have the money."

"Because I'm starving and I'd probably eat the driver," she joked, "which, let's face it, is _not _good etiquette."

Ruben's booming laughter rung in her ears reminding Grace of Santa Claus. "Ah, you keep me young," he chuckled.

"Well, you could've been young forever," she teased him. "Now you're all wrinkly and gross."

"Hey, watch who you be callin' gross," Ruben grumbled. "Somebody's gonna stake that pretty lil' ass of yours and then we'll see who looks wrinkly."

"Touché," she giggled. "God I miss you, Rubes. Come and visit me in Mystic Falls, please?"

"I'll think 'bout it but these old bones are givin' me hassles again," he sighed.

"Okay," she said. "Well, I gotta concentrate on the road, Rubes. I'll call you when I get there."

"See that ya do, honey."

Grace ended the call and rolled her shoulders. It would take fourteen hours (give or take depending on how hungry she was) to reach Mystic Falls. She turned on the radio and a silly pop song about love floated from the speakers. It was going to be a long night of driving, something she did not enjoy. Grace missed the days when horses were the only way to get anywhere. There was something romantic and beautiful about galloping along dusty, sun-bleached trails at the dead of night that made her wistful for the past. Life had been simpler back then. There were days when Grace longed to go back in time to when it had just been her and _him_. Before they had grown up and apart. Grace shook her head. Though she knew he had been turned, it hadn't quite registered until now. The farther away she got from Chicago, the greater the pull was. Her foot flattened on the accelerator. The road, the trees and the illuminated 'cat's-eyes' blurred into one continuous stream.

When the pastel pinks and lilacs of dawn brightened the sky, her stomach let loose a roar. _Great_, she thought. Pulling onto the grassy verge of the highway, she jumped out the car and opened the backdoor of her car. She was hungry, _again_. What was going on? She pulled off the lid of the cooler box stocked with a few blood bags for her journey. A box of hair dye sat on the back seat. Grace had decided that she would change her appearance. She could not return to her old town as Grace Martin – her father was the only person who had ever called her by her first name Arabella. Everyone else, now and back then, called her by her middle name. Grace stared at the hair dye as she guzzled the blood. A little voice in her head told her she wasn't going to change anything. It told her that she was going home, and that home was where you got to be yourself. It was something she had never been able to be because of her mother, her father, her situation and she was going to be damned if she didn't get the satisfaction now.

"It's better late than never," she whispered.

Grace finished off two bags of blood and chucked the hair dye into the thick foliage of Virginia. She watched the little white box spiral through the air before disappearing into the dark greenery. Then she climbed in to her car and gunned the engine. Mystic Falls was still ten hours away. She pumped the gas and shot down the highway. Excitement blossomed in her chest. She was going home. They say home is where the heart is, Grace knew where her heart lay and it was waiting for her in Mystic Falls.

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**What do you guys think?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for all those who reviewed. My ego has been thoroughly boosted x**

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_Chapter three  
_**2012, Mystic Falls**

Grace arrived in Mystic Falls at around four o'clock that afternoon. The town had changed since the time when she had been alive, but not much in the past five years. The neat square with its flowerbeds blooming fit to bust and tall, green oak trees heavy with summer leaves made her smile as she pulled into a parking space across the road from the police precinct. _Of course_, she thought. _There are a lot more people around now. _It was true, the little town had blossomed. It was still tiny and quaint compared to massive hordes in Chicago. Grace much preferred the quiet, country town though. One could actually hear their thoughts out here. Grace climbed out of her car, locking it behind her – big city habits die hard. She strode across the road and up the white, concrete steps of the police department building. It was an old building, dating back to her youth. Grace pushed open the heavy, dark wood doors and stepped onto the white tile floor. The walls were cream and bare but for a notice board, a couple of posters on safety and how to react in different situations. A thin, wiry woman – Grace guessed her to be in her late twenties – was popping gum bubbles and filing her nails. Grace walked up to her desk; it was one of those raised, wraparound ordeals meant to install a sense of order by putting guests in their place.

"Hello," Grace greeted the secretary.

"Hi," the woman sighed, clearly irritated by the disturbance. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. I would like to see the sheriff."

"Sheriff Forbes is a very busy woman," the secretary said, examining her nails – they were painted a ghastly bubblegum pink. "She's asked that no one disturb her unless it's urgent."

"I need to speak with her," Grace reiterated.

"I'm sorry, _ma'am_," came the insincere reply. "The sheriff told me not to bother her."

The vervain coming off this woman was almost toxic. There would be no compelling her. Though one look at her straightened, bleached blonde hair and Grace could tell there would be no reasoning with her either. _Still_, she thought. _I may as well try._

"Can you at least tell her that Grace Martin is here?" she asked.

"And who is that?"

Grace wanted to tear her own hair out. Was this woman mentally retarded? "I'm Grace," her voice rose steadily. "Now, can you please tell Sheriff Forbes that I'm here!"

"What part of 'the sheriff doesn't want to be disturbed' didn't you understand?" the secretary asked, speaking to Grace as if _she _was the slow one.

Grace was just about to launch herself over the polished countertop and stab the woman with her own nail file when a male's voice called, "Grace? Grace Martin, is that you?"

Grace spun around and spotted a familiar face. Her features relaxed into a wide grin. "Hey, James," she said, forgetting about the secretary. "Long time no see."

"You haven't changed a bit," he winked.

Lieutenant James O'Hara was the sheriff's second-in-command. Well, he had been when Grace had blown into town five years ago. In his mid-thirties, James was a painfully dull-looking man but his perpetual optimism and quirky sense of humour more than made up for it. When Grace had informed the sheriff of _who _she was, James - who had been in the room with them - had burst out laughing, his odd, braying laughter like a donkey's call. For that reason, she chuckled at his "you haven't changed a bit" joke and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"It's good to see you again. How've you been?" she asked. "How are Aimee and the kids?"

The merry twinkle in his eyes dulled as if she had turned up the dimmer. "Aimee and I got divorced. She was having an affair, some meathead muscle builder from DC. It's just me and the kids now."

"I'm so sorry, James," she patted his arm. "I really am, and I don't want you to think that I don't care about your little tragedy but I _really _need to talk to the sheriff."

"I told her that Sheriff Forbes didn't want to be bothered," the secretary piped in, sending Grace a dirty look. "She wouldn't listen."

"That's okay, Judith. I'll take care of it," he reassured the secretary. "Come with me, Grace."

"I'm right behind you. _Thanks _for your help, Judith," she sneered. "I'll be sure to tell the sheriff how _helpful _and _polite _you were."

Judith paled slightly and the sight gave Grace immense satisfaction as she followed James down the starkly functional hallways that smelt of polish and gun powder, and if you really thought about it, of desperation. The sheriff's office was at the back of the building and Sheriff Forbes was hunched over her desk, scowling at the piece of paper in front of her. Her desk was swamped with more papers and thick, yellow files. It gave Grace a headache just to think about; she hated paperwork. It was one way to take any joy or pride out of catching a criminal or rescuing a hostage.

"I'm busy," Liz snapped, not bothering to look up from her desk.

"I can see that," Grace commented drily, stepping into sunlit room.

Liz's short blonde hair bobbed as her head shot up at the sound of Grace's voice. Eyes widened then narrowed into slits. She stood up, jolting her desk causing a stack of files to fall. Grace caught them before they could meet the linoleum and placed on the desk.

"Sorry, Liz," she apologized.

"What are you doing here, Grace?" Liz asked, not sounding delighted to see her again.

"Oh come on," she rolled her eyes. "This is my home."

"It _was _your home, now it's mine."

"I was here first," she shot back.

James brayed softly in the background, "She's got ya there, sheriff."

"I'm not here to stir trouble. I just wanted to come home, that's all."

"Vampires always cause trouble," the sheriff said heavily and plopped down into her chair.

Grace frowned. "Okay, there's more to this than just me. What's happened in the last five years?"

"James," the sheriff said suddenly. "I want a word with Ms. Martin."

"Of course, sheriff," James nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Liz took a sip of her coffee, her cold coffee. Grace was eyeing her warily.

"You remember my daughter, don't you?"

"I never met her but I recall you talking about her," Grace answered. "Her name is Caroline."

"She's a vampire."

Grace gave a start, a tiny sound like a startled mouse popped out of her mouth. "Did you…?"

"No," the sheriff looked horrified. "Of course I didn't. She's my daughter. I thought I should give her a chance. You're proof that vampires aren't all bad."

"I don't know about that but thanks," she said gratefully. "I'm sorry about Caroline. Who did it?"

"Katherine Pierce," the sheriff spat the name.

"I've heard of her," she said, trying for casual through clenched teeth. Heard of her? Grace would give anything to rip her apart. "I'll deal with her if you want me to."

"I have more pressing matters," Liz said then she hesitated before saying, "I – I could use your help."

Grace perked up. "What's up?"

"I assume you know Stefan Salvatore, he was one of the –"

"I knew him," she interjected hurriedly. Stefan was like her little brother. Well, he had been. "So, he's a vampire?"

"Yes. We think, actually we _know_ he's involved in a string of vicious murders stretching across the country." Liz handed her a booklet of police reports. "We've been trying to track him down and stop it."

Grace flicked through the reports, grimacing at the pictures of decapitated bodies, and asked, "Whose this _we _you keep referring to?"

"Me and Damon Salvatore," she answered.

Grace didn't flinch, didn't react outwardly in the slightest. That fact made her immensely proud. She nodded carelessly as if the name meant nothing to her. Inside her though was a different matter. Memories, feelings, pictures rioted for her attention. Damon was here… in Mystic Falls. Liz was talking and Grace picked up the words 'Stefan' and 'control' but all she could comprehend at that moment was that she was going to see _him _again. Grace had been avoiding him – among other things – for over one-hundred years. Damon didn't even know she was a vampire. What would he say when he found out? What would he do? Would he forgive her for not telling him? Liz cleared her throat and Grace blinked, shooting the sheriff a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, Liz, could you repeat that last sentence?" she asked.

The sheriff just shook her head. Did Grace think she hadn't seen the carefully blank face when she had mentioned Damon Salvatore's name? "I was just asking if you wanted to help."

"I've got nothing better to do," she shrugged. "I'll help you, on one condition though: I want you to hire me. I was a policeman in Chicago."

Liz considered her words carefully then nodded. "I'm only agreeing to this because I'm severely short staffed," she said slowly. "A vampire policeman is a worthwhile gain in my eyes."

"Way to make me feel used," Grace teased her.

"Things have been crazy lately," Liz said by way of an apology/explanation.

"I can imagine," Grace sympathized.

"What did you serve as in Chicago?"

"A captain."

"That'll work. One of my captain's was killed so I'm short of one."

"That's perfect," she said, edging towards the door. "Well, I'll see you later, Liz."

"Where are you staying?" Liz called after her.

"I don't know yet," she called back. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out."

Grace swept out of the precinct, zigzagging through the traffic to her car. Grace had only one thing on her mind: Damon Salvatore. She turned the car on and shoved it into gear then shot out into the rush hour traffic – well, what Grace would call a normal day in Chicago. Grace had not completely cut off all ties to the Salvatores, keeping tabs on them over the years. She knew they had a house in town and within two minutes of her smartphone app – sometimes she loved technology – she had the street address. It was on the outskirts of town, quite isolated from the rest of Mystic Falls, a cul-de-sac. Grace raised her eyebrows as the Tudor-style house rose up out of the forest. The house itself looked huge, not as enormous as their estate had been back in the day but it was still impressive. It was definitely more inviting. Grace cut the engine and climbed slowly out of the car. The sun had sunken below the tree line and only the pointed roof still caught the last golden rays. Her shoes plodded softly on the dark, grey stones of the porch stairs. Taking a deep breath, Grace pushed open the door. She didn't knock in case he told her to get lost; she feared there was a great possibility of that happening.

The door opened onto an arch that led into an expansive living room. The walls were lined with book shelves and old paintings, some of which she recognized. A fire crackled merrily in the grate of a marble fireplace, above it hung a mirror with a heavy, gold frame. The lighting was soft and warm; it suited the leather couches and careless, copper-toned throws. A glass jug held some amber liquid and its matching tumblers caught the glimmer from the fire. They resided upon a black wood server, an antique if the delicate spiral carvings were any indication. Grace ran her hand over the smooth, polished surface. So this was where Damon lived. She could see him here, could picture him sipping the whiskey she guessed was in the jug. A small thump came from upstairs. Grace jumped but recovered quickly. Her heartbeat whirred away though. She crept slowly towards the staircase, which was back towards the door. It wasn't a grand affair but the Persian rugs that slithered along its surface were almost too beautiful to stand on. As she ascended the stairs, her nerves rose to a climax. What if he didn't want to see her? What if he hated her after he realized she hadn't found him? Grace tiptoed along the landing to the end of a hallway, whose walls were covered with beautiful, simple cream patterns.

"Andie?" his voice asked from behind a dark, wood door.

Grace sucked in her breath as his voice, deep and rich with just that hint of arrogance that she found so sexy, rushed over her skin. All the thoughts left her brain leaving her unable to form a coherent sentence. The door creaked open and she panicked, blurring back down the stairs. The muted creaks of feet on wood sounded in her ears as he walked from what she assumed to be his room. Grace berated herself for being a wimp. This was Damon. She couldn't hide from him. He had been her best friend, her closest companion.

"I wouldn't bother hiding," the arrogance, the surety that nothing could harm him, came through in his tone. "I _will_ find you."

Grace took a deep breath and then called out, "I'm not hiding."

There was a whoosh as he rushed towards the sound of her voice. When he burst into the living room and saw her standing there he froze. Grace took the chance to run her eyes up and down his tall frame. It took all her willpower not to let her mouth fall open. He was gorgeous. The piercing slates of ice that were his eyes stood out against his slightly bronzed skin. The raven hair was shorter now and straighter too and it infinitely upped his sex appeal. He looked dark, dangerous. His face was all hard angles, purely masculine. There was nothing feminine about Damon Salvatore. A pair of black, low cut jeans and a tight, black shirt allowed her to goggle at his defined, lean arms. It was so good to see him again. Tears she hadn't even been aware of began to trickle down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she hastily wiped them away, laughing nervously. Damon blinked at her then took one cautious step towards her.

"Gracie?" he asked.

"Damon," she breathed. "It's really me, Damon. I'm here."

* * *

**Review, please.**


	4. Chapter 4

**I hope this doesn't disappoint...**

* * *

_Chapter four_  
**2012, Mystic Falls**

He was in front of her in a second, pulling her into his arms, crushing her against his hard chest. Relief blew threw her like summer breeze, warm and fragrant. He wasn't angry, he didn't hate her. She wound her arms around his midsection and squeezed him back. Grace had never felt safer than when she was in his arms. They were the ones she had run to when her home life had gotten steadily worse, especially after her father left. She tucked her face into the crook of his shoulder. Her arms tightened around his waist. His hands ran up and down her back, making sure she was really there, that she was real. Damon pulled back after a moment and stared down at her in wonder. She was. Her fresh, ray of sunshine face had tender tears dripping down the sun-kissed skin.

"I can't believe you're here," he breathed, releasing her.

"Me either," she smiled. "It's been so long."

"I thought you were dead."

"I _am_."

"I'm being serious, Gracie."

"So am I. We're _vampires_, Damon."

"I know that."

"Then stop being a dumbass," Grace scolded.

"Ouch," he said. "That _hurt_. You would think after one-hundred and something-years you would be _nicer_."

She punched him on the shoulder. "Stop being a moron."

"What do you mean?" he asked innocently.

Grace just rolled her eyes. Secretly though, she was ecstatic that Damon was joking around with her. It made her feel normal, more _human _even. It felt like the clock had been turned back. Damon shook his head, not quite believing that Grace Martin, that his Gracie was standing in front of him rolling those expressive dark eyes like she had back in eighteen sixty-one, when they had been young and free and human. He had thought she was gone forever, yet here she stood, putting him in place with sharp-tongued, fiery precision that reminded him what it felt like to be _human_. Dressed in skinny jeans and a loose button up t-shirt, she looked different, like Gracie but with something more, something he couldn't quite place. A soft noise rumbled and Grace clutched her stomach, distracting him from his appraisal of her.

Damon grinned. "A little hungry; are we?"

"Shut up," she ordered, her cheeks turning the delicate shade of sunset. "I haven't eaten since this morning."

"I have blood bags downstairs," he chuckled.

"Then why the hell are we still up here?" she demanded, her gaze landed on him. The storm cloud eyes lightened, turning tender. "It's good to see you again, Damon."

"I know, I missed you too," he replied. She followed him back through the house and down into the basement. "So, how did you find me?"

"To be honest…" Gracie hesitated, not sure if she wanted to tell him that she had actually spent her afterlife avoiding him. She had just found him and she couldn't lose him, not again. "I didn't. Sheriff Forbes mentioned you were in town."

"The sheriff?" he repeated slowly. "And how do you know Liz?"

"I came back a few years ago," she explained, leaning against one of the dingy walls. "I always do, just to check up on things. Every single sheriff dating back to the nineteen forties knows who and what I am."

"And they don't rat?"

"They wouldn't dare." She cracked her knuckles cheekily.

"I can see why… Ah, here we go," Damon said as he lifted the lid of a large, white freezer unit and pulled out two blood bags. "This should do the trick. Is O-positive, okay?"

Her stomach growled loudly. "I'm not fussy, blood is blood."

"Savage," he teased. "I like it."

"You haven't seen _anything _yet," she said, following him into the warm, inviting living room.

"If I recall correctly," he said, pouring the blood bags into tall glasses on the server. "You used bite me all the time when we were young."

"Only because you deserved it," she retorted.

Damon, holding both glasses of blood, moved to sit next to her. The heady, robust aroma of blood curled up her nostrils. The black veins rippled out subtly from under her eyes and it took all her self-control not to snatch it from Damon's hand. Grace frowned at her reaction. Blood lust was part and parcel of being what she was; she had accepted it early on. Her control over that side of her was something she prided herself on. Grace had made mistakes, mistakes that still haunted her – nightmares were not a regular occurrence but when they invaded her rest, they were enough that she wouldn't sleep for days afterwards – but she was usually strong enough to stop before she drained her prey dry. Her eyebrows scrunched together. Now that she thought about it, her control had been slipping lately… in fact most of her mistakes had happened in the past five years or so. It wasn't her. It made no sense. Surely the longer you were a vampire, the easier it became to control yourself? Her hand reached out almost of its own volition but Damon held the glass out of reach, smirking that sexy smirk. Something clicked. The vampire in her was _not _amused; she hissed lowly at him, baring her teeth.

"Give me one," her tone was hard and cold, not her at all, not human. It shocked her, and she shook her head, trying to snap herself out of it. "Sorry… Damon," she apologized. "I don't know what that was."

"Do you have problems with control?" he asked, handing her the glass.

"Not usually."

Grace tossed back that glass in one, guzzling gulp, moaning with pleasure as the thick liquid sluiced down her throat. It was like heaven, warming her from the inside out, radiating through her limbs; goose bumps swept along her arms and legs. Tossing an arm across the back of the sofa, Damon watched her drink whilst studiously sipping at his own glass. _Gracie as a vampire_, he mused. _This_ was not something he could have predicted, not something he had planned for. A part of him was happy, contented even, in a way that only she could induce in him, a part of him he hadn't even realized he'd been missing or perhaps one he had closed off. After all, his friend had died back in eighteen sixty-one. Then there was sound that reverberated in the back of her throat – a long, throaty moan – and stirred something inside of him, something hot and hurried.

Grace finished draining her glass and caught him staring at her. The look on his face changed from unrecognizable to humorous as he held back his amusement when she hurriedly wiped leftover blood from her naked lips, placing her glass on the coffee table, and coughed self-consciously. Her gaze turned pointedly towards the fire. Damon continued to watch her, waiting. After a while, he felt her irritation, and he grinned, she was so predictable. The air around her seemed to simmer as if her temper was infectious. She turned to face him, flipping her long hair over her shoulder the way she used to do when they were young.

"What are you staring at?" she demanded, her cheeks were very pink, almost red.

"You; you're getting all embarrassed over drinking blood. It's cute."

Her jaw tightened, temper snapping in the suddenly rigid muscles. "I was _not _embarrassed! The fire is hot."

"Yes. And your point is?"

"_My_ cheeks are only red because I'm sitting too close to it!"

"I never said anything about your cheeks being red," he returned casually, sipping from his glass, "though now that you mention it, they are looking a little tomato-ish."

She threw her hands into the air and stood up, a noise of pure frustration accompanying the movement. "You're impossible, you know that?" she snapped.

"You're hotheaded, you know that?" he mimicked.

The pursed lips and stiff eyebrows held for a second longer then softened into humour. She couldn't help it; it bubbled in her eyes, switching them from charcoal to smoke so they now twinkled subtly. Her eyes fascinated him, they were always changing. One time, the day before she died, his birthday, they had been silver. He would never forget the way they looked that evening; gleaming silver, framed by long, thick eyelashes the colour of dark chocolate. If he had known his closest friend would be dead the next day, he would've asked her about it. It was a running gag between them – well, it had been when they were human – that her eyes changed compared to her moods. In the frigid winter months, and if he was lucky enough to get time off, they would sit by the fire and he would guess her moods. Grace's head tilted to one side slightly, arching an eyebrow that was a lighter shade of her eyelashes.

"Why are looking at me like that?" she asked.

"I was remembering how, when we were younger, we used to play that game," he explained as nostalgia crept in. "I would try and guess your mood based on what shade of grey your eyes were."

"Ah yes," her tone was wistful. She slipped back down onto the couch, resting her head on his shoulder. "You guessed wrong more often than not."

"I was pretty accurate," he protested.

"No, you weren't."

"Are we really doing this again?"

"We have over a hundred years to make up for," she shot back playfully. "I'm just getting started… Damon?"

"Yeah?" he murmured.

"Do you miss it? Being human, I mean."

Damon considered her question carefully. No one had ever asked him outright. In fact, the only person he had ever told was Jessica Koerig, a woman who was now dead because of it. It had been after Rose had died, after he had drunken too much whiskey, after he had let his emotions get the better of him. Then he had longed desperately to be human once again, would've given anything for it. However, now he felt differently. The whole notion of being human, of being alive, had faded into grim reality. He swallowed hard. He was never going to be human again... and he had been so sure that he had accepted it.

"I did," his voice was raspy.

"Did?" she asked, pretending not to notice the change in tone. "What happened?"

"I realized that wishing I was human wasn't going to change the fact that I'm not. I'm dead. I can't change my fate."

"You have a morbid view on life," she replied.

"Oh, really?" he chuckled, though it was a little forced. "Prove me wrong."

"Anytime, anywhere," Grace removed her head from his shoulder so she could meet his eye. "I'm going to admit that you're right, though it makes me sick to say it." Damon raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth but she cut him off. "However, I think you're only looking at one side of the argument. We don't die, don't age. We're stronger, faster. We get to watch the world change. We feel everything more vividly, or we can choose not to feel at all. It's the choices we make that –"

Damon couldn't hold the laughter in a moment longer; it burst out of him, grinding Grace to halt, and he threw his head back, letting it pour out of him. Grace tried to pin him with a glare but his jubilance was contagious. The corners of her lips tipped upwards. It was great to hear his laughter, a little disappointing that her emotional rant was cause of it but she decided to let it go. If this was what it took for him to be happy, she would gladly lose a little of her pride. It was better than seeing the jaded expression, the one that told her he'd been through a lot more than he was letting on. Eventually, he regained control of himself. His hearty guffaws quieted. He glanced at Grace to find her looking amused despite herself, lips curved so the little dimple on her right cheek revealed itself. His arm slipped from the top of the couch to around her shoulders.

"Sorry, Gracie, that was… poetic," he chortled. "You should become a writer, or a poet. You and Stefan would get along famously."

"We already do, or we used to."

"Oh no," he corrected. "The new, _boring _Stefan is broody like you cannot believe. It's depressing just to sit in the same room as him."

"Are we talking about the same Stefan Salvatore?" she asked, disbelieving. "_Your_ _brother_ is who we're talking about, right?"

"Yup," he finished off his glass of blood, smacking his lips together with great satisfaction.

"Stefan's changed," she mused. "Decapitations, brooding… What happened?"

"He turned off his humanity to save me. I was bitten by a werewolf –"

"Wait." Grace held up her hand. "If you were bitten, why aren't you dead?"

"He made a deal with the devil. It was the only he could save my life." Grace's face went pale, almost transparent. "Are you okay? Grace, what is it?"

"There's only one person who can cure a werewolf's bite," she whispered, "but I pray to whatever God exists that you found another way."

"You know Klaus," Damon stated, leaving no room for argument.

"Know him? No." She stood up. Her eyes went black like obsidian, gleaming and dangerous. "I _hate _him."

* * *

**How'd I do? **


End file.
